The Moon's An Arrant Thief,

Rightly To Be Great Is Not To Stir Without Great Argument, But Greatly To Find Quarrel In A Straw When Honour's At The Stake.

I Have Almost Forgotten The Taste Of Fears: The Time Has Been, My Senses Would Have Cool’d To Hear A Night-shriek; And My Fell Of Hair Would At A Dismal Treatise Rouse And Stir As Life Were In’t: I Have Supt Full With Horrors; Direness, Familiar To My Slaughterous Thoughts, Cannot Once Start Me.

Blow, Winds, And Crack Your Cheeks! Rage! Blow! You Cataracts And Hurricanoes, Spout Till You Have Drenched Our Teeples, Drowned The Cocks! You Sulphurour And Thought-executing Fires, Vaunt-couriers To Oak-cleaving Thunderbolts, Singe My White Head! And Thou, All-shaking Thunder, Strike Flat The Thick Rotundity O' The World! Crack Nature's Molds, All Germens Spill At Once That Make Ingrateful Man!

He Hath Eaten Me Out Of House And Home.

See The Minutes, How They Run, How Many Make The Hour Full Complete; How Many Hours Bring About The Day; How Many Days Will Finish Up The Year; How Many Years A Mortal Man May Live.